Life After the Order
by Margaret Luna Sullivan
Summary: Canon until mid season 2. Terri marries Mitch four years early after leaving the Order. Rose marries Malcolm. Stable Rose. Warning: Spanking of adults and children in some chapters. Possibly squicky in early chapters, tamer later.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Terri Ryan discarded this. It was several times longer, and a fair bit darker than it is now when she wrote it. After all, it was supposed to be a chapter of her fic The Diary.

I will warn you right now that this fic does contain corporal punishment (spanking). In fact, in the first two chapters it's quite severe, and the following 3-4 chapters will have mentions of the events in the first two chapters. Chapters one and two have spanking of an adult, later chapters will probably have spanking of both children and adults.

I don't own All Saints. Channel 7 owned the show, EMI owns the DVDs of Series 1-5, and another company owns the DVDs of series 6-12.

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><p>How it all Started<p>

My name is Terri Sullivan, and I used to be a member of a religious order called Our Lady of the Light. That's right, I used to be a nun. And before that, I was engaged to an incredibly sweet man who I adored and who adored me. I'll tell you about what happened the first time around another day, if you haven't read the entries about it from both my and his viewpoint in the Ward Journal by then. (The Ward Journal is written up in Terri Ryan's fic The Diary)

Anyhow, what I'm writing about right now is the process which eventually lead to me leaving the Order. I'm still in touch with them, I visit regularly (well, I try to. I must go back and see them one day this week, before Bernard starts giving me a hard time again!) and I pray for them regularly. But I don't miss life as a religious. Maybe I should, but I don't. And since I'm still in touch with all my closest friends from that time, I can't say I miss them, either.

Life as a religious was becoming difficult for me, I was in trouble every other day it seemed by the time I left the Order. The final straw was a suicide patient who started giving off toxic fumes... or at least the aftermath of what happened that day. I'll explain that later, right now I guess I'd better tell you all about what lead up to that happening.

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><p>Mitch only ever pulled rank once. On me, no less. Because apparently a patient appeared to be a bit 'wrung out' (his diagnosis for the time being) and I was protesting the man taking up a bed when he didn't seem to need one. The patient turned out to have GBS, so thank God Mitch DID pull rank that day! He never pulled rank again, not that I know of. Even in the early days, before our relationship picked up, he was so sweet, so understanding. And if a nurse disagreed with him, he always listened. He never pulled rank just to get his own way... he'd explain a decision, ask for help if he needed it. He accepted it if he was wrong, and with a good grace, no less.<p>

Better yet, he never gloated if he was proven right. He boosted the egos of those around him. He always reassured people that their errors weren't the end of the universe, and that it happens to everyone. He usually had a funny anecdote about how something had happened to him, about how he'd done the same thing or screwed up the same way. And how someone else had saved his bacon. He also told everyone that they couldn't be perfect all the time, that they'd figure it out sooner or later, and that screwing up or overlooking something wasn't a disaster. But now I've gone off topic again, haven't I? I'm talking about how Mitch and I started dating again, instead of me leaving the Order, which is what I was meaning to talk about.

I guess I should really be complaining about Bernard. I think the process which culminated in my decision to leave the order may have started with Peter Morrison's injuries. She thought I had forgotten I was a nun. Hmph. I pointed out to her in the last days of my time in the Community that the reason I had such a hard time with Mitch back was that being a nun was the centre of my universe.

But I took being Godmother to Laura and Simon very seriously, and Peter was going through a really bad time. But I had no grounds to remove Simon and Laura from Pete's home, so my only option was staying with them. Of course, Bernard didn't see it that way... well, maybe I was neglecting the other sisters a little bit. I don't want to think so, but maybe I was.

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><p>Then bloody Mitch Stevens shows up again. One month of Mitch being back and we're already almost best friends again. The first day he was back, my heart was doing flip flops when our eyes met across the courtyard. We almost walked into each other in a stairwell, and I bolted around a corner, breathing hard, praying he hadn't noticed.<p>

A couple of nights later, I walk into my office to find Mitch on my phone. Then he says he wanted to shoot the breeze before going home. Apparently we have a lot of catching up to do because it's been eight years. I was sceptical. And the bugger wouldn't stop flirting with me, either, which was driving me NUTS.

I spent one night lamenting in Cougars. About how everyone who matters to me leaves me. Mitch was there too, and apart from a couple of sarcastic remarks, and a few smart-arse comments, he was very sweet and understanding. In other words: he sat there and listened to me vent. I really appreciated him for that, it was so sweet of him,

He also, unfortunately accurately, pointed out that being a nun wouldn't stop a man from falling in love with me. I told him he was being ridiculous, because I was so sure he was talking about Peter. And yeah, Pete and I were good friends. Very close. But I had been closer to Jenny. I only worked out a few weeks later that he was talking more about himself than Pete.

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><p>But I believe the day Bernard had the GALL to tell me that I had to think about leaving my Ward, my HOME, my entire LIFE... (Well, the order was important to me, but All Saints was my life and very much a large part of my world.) was the day I finally realised I might have to consider leaving the order.<p>

Apparently refusing to listen to Bernard, who was giving me a hard time, meant I was falling victim to the sin of pride. Frankly, Bernard and her ilk were welcome to care for my soul... so long as they left me the hell alone while they did it. Mitch showed up on the porch that same night, tossing pebbles at the window to get my attention.

He asked me if we could've made it work. He asked me to confirm the good times we had shared, and I couldn't deny them. We'd shared the best of times, and the worst. Perhaps we could've made it work. Probably, even. I spent the rest of the week or so haunted by memories of the time before he went away. Which didn't help the hell I was going through.

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><p>I'm going to tell you about several instances of 'guidance therapy'. Also known as 'redirecting wandering feet' and 'soul saving', to the order, and to most others in my life, as a damned good thrashing. I got about four of them in two months, during that time, culminating in one which reopened the previous years' scars, and created new ones as well.<p>

But that can come later in the story. The first one was an encounter with a hairbrush. I had been offered a possible new position, which would move me permanently out of the Ward. Well, of course, to me that was out of the question. So Bernard said I'd have to leave the hospital altogether. I told her that I was tired, and that I was going to bed.

A few minutes later, just as I had changed into pajamas and was hanging up my uniform, Bernard came into my room. I got a five or ten minute lecture about commitment to God, self-denial and various other things. I'm ashamed to admit that I was ignoring her most of the time, having tuned out after about two minutes. In fact, I was halfway into making the decision to tell her to buzz off and that I'd see her in the morning when Bernard grabbed my arm,

I guess I should have expected it, but I didn't. Next thing I knew, I was lying face down across my bed. Or more specifically, Bernard had seated herself on the bed, and I was face down across her legs. I spent five minutes (Yes, I timed it!) trying to free myself from her grip, before giving up in disgust. During that time, as I learned when I stopped struggling, Bernard had managed to work down my pajama trousers. I felt like I was six again, over my mother's knees, and I promise you that is NOT a pleasant feeling.

But an even less pleasant feeling is wood on bare skin. Unless you're in control of it and its just a ruler or hairbrush... being used for its original purpose, that is. Holding a hairbrush to style your own or someone else's hair is a good feeling. So is using a ruler to draw a straight line. Never liked wielding the bloody things in a corrective manner, even though I know it's part of my job as boss of a ward to keep discipline... Anyway, I just got sidetracked, didn't I?

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><p>Like I said, cold, heavy wood on bare skin is a rather unpleasant feeling. I recognised it at once, just from the feel of it. Large, square hairbrush. One of the heavier ones. Clearly I'd been showing too much attitude or something, if Bernard intended to start straight out with the damned thing, since I had kinda been expecting a warm-up of some sort. I don't know why, but I found myself shivering uncontrollably.<p>

I got pretty much the spanking of my life that night. It was as thorough a spanking as I had ever gotten from anyone in the order. I think... no, I know, that Harry Williams had done worse to me. I think, if I'd provoked him, or if Mum had let him get near me when he was drunk and I'd been bad, Dad might have done worse to me. And I remember, vaguely, a couple of times someone in the community had done worse to me. But that was always with Crook. I don't think anyone other than Dad would've been able to use a hairbrush that harshly.

I don't know, because I never actually checked, but I wouldn't be surprised if I got bruises from that night... and that was the first spanking of that night. Bernard got me settled, told me to go to sleep, and left my room, leaving me lying on one side, sniffling a bit and feeling rather miserable. I had just managed to drop off to sleep when I hear rattling, followed by chinks.

Well, of course I sat up and pulled on my slippers, ready to go and investigate. I heard Bernard's indignant "who are you? What do you want?" and Mitch's quiet, slurry identification and request to see me. I was already coming to investigate, so I told Bernard I would deal with it, and that she should go back to bed. She nodded, but the look she gave me said "this isn't over, Theresa". That's why the first thing I said to Mitch wasn't "what are you doing here?", but "are you TRYING to get me excommunicated?"

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><p>Frankly, that night, I thought excommunication might just be preferable to the spanking I got once Mitch had left. Bernard hadn't gone to bed, she was waiting for me in my room. I had no sooner shrugged off my dressing gown than Bernard grabbed my arm and pushed me across the desk in my room. I had turned my head on one side, rather stupidly I guess, so I was watching her every move. I guess I thought being able to see the strap coming would help me prepare for each whack. It didn't, of course. I still got taken by surprise by most of them, and even the ones which didn't catch me off guard burned unpleasantly.<p>

I'm quite sure I ought to be grateful she didn't use Crook the whole time, but at the time all I could focus on was the way her body kept twisting slightly every time she swung that strap. Bernard finished up that night with six quite firm but not especially harsh (if that's possible from that rotten little rod—but I think the intention of lower severity was there) swats from Crook. The last line of the lecture I was getting while I endured this latest thrashing was "and no more 'gentlemen callers' Theresa. Or have you abandoned your vow of chastity altogether?" Maybe Von's continually calling Bernard 'Nazi nun' wasn't too far off the mark... and i just lost my point. I shook my head hard because I was crying too hard to respond coherently. That damn strap hurt worse than bloody Menace, for all that it was a single tailed strap and Menace is a split strap with three tails.

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><p>Bernard dropped Crook, and helped me stand, supporting me so I could fix my pajamas and wipe my face, before giving me a brief hug and telling me to go to bed, and that she would see me in the morning. I nodded, forcing back tears and mumbling something to the effect of 'good night'. I eventually managed to crawl into bed and get to sleep, after spending a couple of hours pacing my room, deep in thought. I didn't sleep well, though. I don't think the other women did, either, since every time I woke up from a nightmare or rolling into a bad position there was a different Sister sitting by the bed. I appreciated their care, but they really shouldn't have gone to such lengths for me.<p>

The reason I spent so long pacing before I finally went to bed was that I had realised I might need to re-evaluate my life, and my priorities. After all, if Mitch turning up in the middle of the night, wanting to talk about who knows what was indicative of an abandoned vow, then I didn't want to make vows, and doubted very much that I could keep the vows I had made.

That was the beginning of the end. The next event which convinced me that I might need to take a long, hard look at my life, and decide whether I was happy with where I was going, came a few weeks later. And when it came, it was one HELL of a bad day. But that's another story, for another time.

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><p>The spankings in this chapter were quite severe in comparison to in most following chapters, but rather tame in comparison to the one in the next chapter. If you don't want to read that, then just skip the next chapter, because chapters three and four will recap the important events of chapter two, in nutshell and sanitised form.<p> 


	2. Crook Gets Used

_**************************************************************Warning: This chapter contains a possibly disturbingly graphic depiction of corporal punishment on an adult. If this upsets you, then do not read this chapter.**_

I don't think I can make it any clearer that this chapter may scare some people. Read this chapter at your own risk, and don't blame me if you end up with nightmares. This whole chapter is based off one, after all.

I know nothing about medical terms, and expect most of the ones used in this chapter, and any other chapters, to be wrong.

Clearly, won't let me keep formatting. The above warning was meant to be red text with yellow highlight.

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><p>The Last Straw<p>

After a long, hard day, (which had culminated in a suicide patient giving off toxic fumes) someone suggested going to Cougars for a drink. I replied "count me in". I wanted to avoid Bernard, I guess. Really, I just wanted to debrief the way my Ward did, rather than the way Admin preferred.

I guess I had lost track of time until at some point, Mitch started hassling me about drinking on an empty stomach. It was when he mentioned a dinner invitation that I realised how late it was. I had been nursing a single glass of wine for a while, but I hissed 'oh no, Bernard's going to KILL me,' swallowed it in two gulps, grabbed my stuff and dashed. I knew Bernard wasn't going to be happy with me... and I was right.

I got inside the house, Bernard was waiting. I was stammering some kind of apology, trying to explain what a bad day we'd had, but Bernard just interrupted me. "It's always something, isn't it. Except when it comes to your other commitments. It can't go on like this, Theresa." She also had a remark about it being hard to keep track of the time while drinking. I actually thought Bernard was going to leave it at that, and was considering celebrating the fact that I'd gotten off lightly, considering how she'd talked to me that morning... how very wrong I was.

Once again, like the day I'd started taking a long, hard look at my life as a religious, and at my priorities, I was utterly exhausted. And, once again I had changed into pajamas and was hanging up my day clothes—my uniform had to be fumigated, because of suicide bloke-, (and wondering if I shouldn't ring Von or Steph, just to let them know I got home safely, since I'd dashed out of Cougars in a mad rush, and they might be worried) when I heard a knock at my door. I answered it, and Bernard was there... with Crook. (The house's one, not the Wards) I really wasn't in the mood for 'guidance' or 'corrective therapy' or whatever the hell Bernard thought she was doing, because I needed rest after the hell of a day we'd had.

I wasn't going to get any, though, and well I knew it. I took one look at Bernard's stony expression and knew that I would be sleeping on my stomach for a few days. (If I actually could sleep, that is.) I busied myself, grabbing the two pillows from the top of my bed, and another two spares which lived in the wardrobe, and piled them in the middle of my bed, looking mistrustfully at Crook the entire time, before grabbing a fifth pillow and one of my favourite rosaries, pushing my pajamas down, and crawling over the pillows.

I held onto that fifth pillow and rosary for dear life, watching out of the corner of my right eye as Bernard approached the bed, lecturing me the whole time about my recent behaviour and how I was 'losing my way and straying too far from the path of righteousness' blah blah blah. (No, she didn't actually say that, but that's my brain's translation of it, since I tuned her out after a while.)

The first cut (Stroke, slice, cut, blow, or what-bloody-ever they call them these days. And yes, I am in a belligerent mood. What do you plan on doing about it?) took me by surprise. It shouldn't have, I could see it coming; (Literally and figuratively) but it took me by surprise. No real pain at first, just impact force. For a moment, I wondered if Bernard was actually going to use Crook, or had brought it in just to scare me... then the pain set in, and I was in no doubt whatsoever that Bernard was using crook. Damn, but that rod burns.

I'm not sure just how many strokes I got, but I don't think that 'around two dozen, maybe more' is an exaggeration. I remember that I lost track of the individual impacts around number 18, so perhaps I did only get six more after that. After number 18, it was just one long, deep burn, which suddenly spiked with each impact. I couldn't have told you where the impacts after 18 landed, just that they did land. Over and over and over, 18 separate impacts I was able to identify the exact location of, and an unknown number which the exact location of is unknown (General area is fairly obvious, but actual impact location is unknown... I think three or more landed on the same spot a few times, but I couldn't be certain.)

I kept alternating between burying my head in the pillow as deep as it would go, and having one cheek resting on the surface, before finally deciding to just keep my head on one side. I even momentarily felt a little better for having made the decision... then the next impact spike registered through my pain sensors, and coherent thought left me. It wouldn't return for some time, although when it did show up again it was just in time to register some disturbingly accurate accusations of hysteria. I'm not sure my sarcastic 'no, DUH!" was appreciated.

I felt the sensitive fold of skin just above my thighs tear somewhere around number 12, and the only thought to really register was a dim recognition that Luke's hard work the previous year had just been spoiled, since that was the exact location of the two worst scars from Harry's last tantrum. Luke, perhaps predictably, was NOT impressed... neither, come to think of it, were Von and Mitch.

I tried to co-operate, or at least I hope I did, but it seemed that somewhere around 18 I lost control of my body. It wasn't a simple matter of 'would not' i simply COULD not stop twitching and jerking, no matter how much I stiffened or gripped the blankets. And one, or both legs would make strange little automatic jumps with each impact, so holding position was almost impossible... I'm not sure if Bernard noticed or cared about my clear lack of obedience, but at least I don't remember getting any 'extras' for it... and believe me, one KNEW when one was getting 'extras', Bernard made sure of that. Perhaps you only get 'extras' when you should have been able to control your reactions to what was happening, perhaps the fact I wasn't actively trying to avoid my correction counted in my favour... I'm not sure I care now, and I sure as hell didn't care back then.

Crook was weakened by years of use, and/or years of just sitting in a corner gathering dust. The reason for Crook's bad condition didn't matter then, and I very much doubt it matters now, so very long after the incident. Either way, Bernard was horrified when Crook just broke in half after one stroke. I'm not sure what number it was, probably 24, (That was the last spike I remember, and I think that was when I heard the sharp snap, so...) anyhow whatever number it was Crook broke on, that was the last one I got that night... or ever, actually. In fact, it would eventually end up being the last one (from Crook, at least) that anyone in the Community got. Crook never got replaced, since Bernard was so horrified at managing to break one, and terrified of the idea of breaking another.

I never had been fond of splinters, but we learned one thing that night: metal splinters are more troublesome, and more painful, than wood ones. Well, that (about the pain) was my opinion, anyway, but the others agreed about the trouble. With one particularly deep splinter, they had to wait until Luke could operate, which risked infection. Fortunately, it didn't occur, because Bernard was having enough trouble coping with everything anyway.

I knew the scars from last year had broken open because the area around them was damp and sticky, but I wouldn't know the full extent of the damage Crook had done to me this time until Bernard finally dropped the hateful rotten thing and sank down onto the bed beside me. Her horrified cry of 'Theresa, you're bleeding!' shouldn't have shocked me, but it did. I expected to hear that there was blood present, but hearing that it was still flowing actually scared me.

At one point, I watched, as though in a daze, as something red ran down the side of my right leg, and started spreading slowly over my sheets. I could smell it; it smelled coppery, metallic and bitter. It was wet and sticky, too. I wondered what it was, but I didn't have the courage or energy to ask. I would learn later that it was my own blood... and unlike last year, this time I would need a transfusion, because despite pressure bandages and proper wound care, it just wouldn't clot. I blamed the cold I had the previous week.

Poor Bernard later told me that I either wouldn't or couldn't stop whimpering, and that I kept on trying to move out of her reach. I don't really remember that. I remember I hurt all over. I vaguely remember someone trying to stroke my face, but I was rather restless and couldn't look Bernard (or anyone else, really) in the face at that moment. And I didn't particularly feel like being touched. So I was probably making a nuisance of myself by refusing to lie still, or by turning away from anyone who tried to comfort me. I don't think even realising that I seemed edgy, jumpy, and nervous of the other sisters was of any comfort to Bernard, mind.

It must have been cold comfort to her to learn that this behaviour was motivated by fear, pain, and apathy rather than hatred. I guess after a while she decided trying to rub my calves wasn't going to work, (she would have known better than to touch my thighs, crook had pretty much minced them... or at least that's how it felt. I learned later that it was mainly minor cuts and grazes, and only two deep ones required stitches.) because she moved further up the bed, trying to work on my back and shoulders instead. I think I co-operated a bit more with those efforts, because her movements and behaviour seemed less tense after that... Until Mitch showed up, that is.

And realising that Mitch and Von were the only people I showed any signs at all of relaxing for would not have been of any comfort to any of the girls. Bernard had finally gotten me lying down properly, (well, on one hip, but that was better than tossing and turning constantly and not staying still. It hurt to move, but I was too jumpy to stay still, and I think that scared the other girls. I'm not normally that jumpy.) It was also better than the tight ball Martha and Louisa had spent ten minutes coaxing me out of.

Apparently it took Bernard four tries before she managed to get my attention long enough to talk to me, and another four before she finally convinced me that the ordeal was finished and done with, that I was safe, that my latest transgression was forgiven and my slate wiped clean and that everything was alright now... I'm not really sure what she said to me, most of it didn't penetrate my foggy brain, and something was pounding in my ears, preventing me from making any real sense out of what I could hear. But that was what she usually said, so I'll just assume it was the same thing this time, possibly interspersed with apologies and fretting over the stupid weeping cuts.

Bernard has always been a model of efficiency, even when trying to be gentle. Such was the case that day, she had the stupid pillows out from under me, (leaving me in a MUCH more comfortable position. I HATE lying over pillows, it's so bloody awkward) and their cases changed before I had fully articulated a protesting groan. I'm not sure how, considering the fact I was reluctant to move, and must have been a dead weight, but she changed the sheets as well, placing a thick towel down on top of the crisp white sheets for some reason.

I knew why she when left the room soon afterwards, returning with a large bowl of lukewarm water, antiseptic something, and soft washcloths. The many minor cuts and grazes stung like heck as they were cleaned, but I could somehow tell that Bernard was trying to be gentle. The deeper cuts, even though there were only five on each side, really burned as they were washed out and had antiseptic applied, but I could tell from Bernard's crooning (yeah, the stupid rushing sound had gone by now. I think my heart rate was approaching normal again, too. My chest didn't hurt as much as it had earlier) that she was being as gentle as she could.

About ten minutes (and three changes of pressure bandages) later I heard her horrified cry of "Theresa, you're still bleeding!" I looked at her in confusion, and then stared at the bundle of sheets and pillowcases on the floor. "Oh. Um, that's what the damp stuff was, then," I mumbled. "That would explain why it still stings, though. And why I feel a bit dizzy." I tried, again, to curl in on myself, noticing that the lights were far too bright and even though there was only Bernard and me there at the time I felt overcrowded and a little afraid still.

I must have started whimpering again, because Martha, who had stuck her head in a moment earlier to see if we needed anything, came back with two glasses of water and several panadol. And a lot more pressure dressing pads, which I think were leftovers from last year. Good old Pete was always over prepared.

Louisa, Martha and Bernard seemed to work together to keep pressure on the wounds. Martha at one point tried to broach the subject of Crook's poor condition, but both Bernard and I bit her head off for it. I apologised almost at once, but she seemed to understand that it was a bit of a touchy subject. A few weeks later, I was just having dinner with the community, before an evening prayer meeting, when the subject was brought up again, by one of the younger novices, who mentioned that she hadn't seen Crook in weeks, and was hoping it was gone for good.

Bernard said it was, as it was a stupid, dangerous thing. But she also said she wasn't sure what should be used instead as the ultimate sanction. Louisa was the one who replied that she was quite certain that the strap was more than sufficient for the few really major issues the community ever came across, and the hairbrush would work fine for dealing with everything else. When she paused, I mentioned the small, light paddles I favoured at work. "Utterly useless for real punishment, but if all you want to do is get someone's attention, FAST, then Harmless (as the Ward has christened it) is your best bet. You can't use any real force, because they're so damn flimsy, but quick, sharp wrist movements will produce more than enough sting to tell someone to shape up FAST. And since 17's broke yesterday, I can requisition one extra and pass it on to you, if you want." But back to that awful night when Crook was last used.

I guess great minds truly do think alike, because Martha says the phone had only just started ringing after call connection when the doorbell rang. Bernard went to answer it, leaving Louisa and Martha with me. They continued their ministrations. I think we talked, but I'm not sure. Martha says I tried to curl in on myself twice more, and actually pulled the pillow over my head at one point, to block out the light. I hope someone told Bernard that, so she knew I was responding that way to almost everyone. I guess someone must have said something like that, from how cautiously my visitors approached me, although I don't know whether the sisters were happy about the fact I was clearly more comfortable, and more open to interaction, with staff from the hospital, one of them a man to boot, than I was with the other sisters.

Bernard came back, leading Von and Mitch. Mitch was carrying his medical bag, and was quizzing Bernard constantly about my condition. Apparently he had taken one look at her face and decided all his worst fears had been realised, and was trying to find out how bad the damage was. Bernard was trying equally hard to avoid the questions, finally snapping that he would see me in a few minutes, and he could get the answers to his questions then.

Louisa looked up at her, raising one eyebrow. Bernard said she had seriously considered telling him to go away and never darken our doorstep again, until he pulled out his hospital ID. I said he must have been desperate to see me, if he was willing to show his ID, just to see a pretty face, and that he was out of luck, since I was in no condition to consider breaking my vow of chastity, or even having a drink. Bernard, Louisa and Martha stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "Your vow of obedience, on the other hand, has had a bomb dropped on it! Now lie still and rest!" Louisa quipped. Bernard scowled and her hands twitched. I think she was trying to decide whether or not to get the hairbrush out. Von laughed nervously. Apparently around the same time as Martha was deciding who to ring, my Ward were deciding who to send to make sure I'd gotten home safe and hadn't been killed by Bernard... according to Von, Bernard flinched when Mitch said that.

What we thought might have been Divine Intervention, or might have been just dumb luck was that the only number for a medical professional I had, other than Peter's old one was Mitch's. Or the Ward's direct number. The last one was out of the question, because we wouldn't know which doctor was being sent, and the Sisters wouldn't trust a doctor whose name they didn't recognise, especially if it was a male.

Mitch took one look at me, snapped his medical bag shut, stating that he couldn't do anything for me right now, and told Louisa to ring the ambulance. He did, however, praise her and Bernard and Martha for how clean the wounds were and how emotionally stable the patient appeared to be, especially since the patient appeared to be able to make dumb jokes. He got a four way snort for that comment. Stable was the last thing I was, any joking was the hysteria talking, as the sisters rather emphatically explained to him... along with a full explanation of how I had behaved for most of the evening, since getting home. Or, more specifically, since Bernard and Crook were done with me.

He sat down on the bed and took my hand. "Terri? Terri? Sullivan? Look at me, angel." I turned my head, and blinked blearily (and slightly incredulously) at him. Bernard stared. "Congratulations, Doctor. She hasn't looked anyone in the face sinc Crook broke, you're the first one she'll look at, or stay still for...heck she's even uncurled herself, although I don't know what to do to make her stop shaking." Mitch handed over a mild muscle relaxant. "Give her this, with a mouthful of water."

"I'm sorry, sweetie. I don't have anywhere near enough supplies to deal with this one. We're going to have to take you to hospital, Sullivan." I groaned. "Not All Saints." I pleaded. He smiled, sadly. "You know ambo protocol, Sullivan. All Saints is the closest hospital. It should only be an overnight admission, and with any luck they'll just keep you in emergency. If they have to send you to a ward..." "17. Make it 17. At least that way I don't get pity. I don't want news of this spreading." He nodded. He also agreed to be, actually insisted on being, the admitting doctor.

They had needed to admit me. And since emergency were unreasonably busy, they wanted to send me to a Ward. Mitch was going to fight it; until Cara said the first bed they had been offered was on 17. Apparently Joan Maden had found out about what happened to me, and felt that I would be the most comfortable in familiar surroundings. Mitch retorted that the only reason he was agreeing was that 17's staff were too sensible to pity me. Or at least to show it, even if they felt it. "Sullivan won't want any fuss, you know that." Cara claims he said.

'Sullivan won't want any fuss,' my foot. As far as I was concerned, too much fuss had already been made. I had four changes of pressure dressings, in one night, but I still required a transfusion, and the dressings weren't stopping the bleeding. So, when we got up to the ward, I didn't get the rest I no doubt needed, or the peace I was craving. Luke met us at the doors, as did Steph. "Room 1?" she asked "No way." I replied, groggily. "Not unless it's the only bed available, Steph, you know how I feel about fuss." Steph nodded. "OK. Bed 3, room 4. And Luke wants to talk to you."

We got to room 4, and Mitch was about to prep me for the transfer from trolley to bed when Luke told him to stop. He asked for a quick run-down of my condition, before handing me a cup of water and two tablets. "Pre-med, Terri. There's a theatre available in half an hour, and from what I've been told, it sounds like this isn't as simple a patch-up as Harry's handiwork turned out to be." I nodded, blankly, before swallowing the pre-med and then sinking sideways onto the pillow.

"Your hard work from last year's wasted, Luke. The old scars burst open about ten or so strokes in. I lost count of strokes after 18. How bad is it?" I said, trying to downplay the situation. "Mitch mentioned you said it feels like it's been sliced to ribbons?" Clearly Luke wasn't going to let me. "Yeah, it does. Burns like heck. Ambos gave me morphine, that's helping."

Luke gave me a sad smile. "Well, it was pretty close estimate, Terri. The old four are open and bleeding heavily, and there's six new ones to go with them. Have you had a bug or something in the last month or so, because I'm a little worried about your clotting profile. Four of those lacerations should have scabbed over by now, even with all the restlessness you've been displaying. Or at least stopped bleeding. All the minor cuts and grazes should have healed, or at least scabbed, too. I'm going to have to do something about immobilising you, every move you make is deepening six of the lacerations."

Mitch asked for an elaboration, probably to add to my patient chart or something. Hopefully NOT to tell the sisters, Bernard was having enough trouble coping with everything that had happened already. "The crease between thigh and buttock has two new lacerations, to go with the two old ones from last year, and all are bleeding freely. There's a nasty looking pair in your knee hollows as well. All the curling and uncurling and moving really isn't helping any of them. Fortunately, there's two across the fleshier part of the cheeks, and the final two are in the fleshier part of the thighs, and will hopefully be less trouble than the six bad ones. And there's a lot of minor cuts and grazes all over the thighs and buttocks that should be showing signs of healing by now." I looked up at him, irritated. "Well, that would explain Bernard's grumbling about bad aim and not meaning to strike that low. And why do you think I'm trying NOT to move?" I replied. "And yes, I had a cold about a week or so ago, but I kept up the vitamins and everything, so my clotting profile should be normal."

"You won't want to stay still for any length of time for a while. There's an awful lot of minor cuts and grazes, as I mentioned, and six of the lacerations are in very inconvenient positions. At least until the stitches come out, bending and stretching your legs is not going to be a welcome prospect. Nor is sitting. The remaining ones are spread around the more fleshy area of your thighs and cheeks. They shouldn't give you too much trouble, but sitting's not going to be a welcome prospect for a while."

"No shit, Sherlock!" Mitch replied for me. I had already been feeling dizzy and a little weak, probably from blood loss, and the pre-med made me too groggy to really respond coherently, but according to Steph I managed to raise my head and extend the middle finger on my right hand. Also according to Steph, Luke asked if I wanted it cut off. I guess everyone's a comedian, but honestly, if Luke was trying to be funny, then he wasn't succeeding. And if he'd been one of my nurses he'd be scrubbing bedpans for a month for such a lame joke.

Four units of whole blood, two of platelets and a total of fifty stitches later, I was back on 17, lying on one side and groggily grumbling about my aching spine. "Referred pain from buttocks, bruised tailbone and hips, blah blah blah" Mitch was saying to someone over the phone, and Steph was scribbling something on a patient chart. I grumbled a bit more, before asking for something to drink. Von produced a cup of ice chips, before telling Steph that she was going to check on the other patients, because 'Terri won't be happy to find more than one of us fussing over her'.

I grumbled about not wanting anyone fussing over me, and Steph calmly informed me that I was going to have to put up with it at least for that night. I wasn't in the mood for 'putting up with it', and I have the uncomfortable feeling I made that rather plain to my poor staff. I finally got to sleep... well, not exactly sleep. It was more like a light doze, on again and off again. Nightmares plagued what little rest I was getting, and muscle spasms prevented me from relaxing.

After the third screaming nightmare in two hours, Steph paged Mitch, who asked why the hell I hadn't been given at least a sedative. Steph mumbled something about not sedating a patient who had required a transfusion, until certain there wasn't an adverse reaction to the donor blood. Mitch said that only counted if there wasn't time for a cross-match and universal donor blood had to be used. I'd been cross matched, and it was perfectly safe to give me a sedative. He then proceeded to write a script for sleeping tablets, telling me to take one right now and to keep the rest for the next week or so, but not to use them every night, because otherwise I might become dependent on them.

I slept after that, even though I'm not about to pretend I was overly comfortable. I woke the next morning at about 5 AM I guess, to find my uniform hanging over the back of the bedside chair, and my bathroom kit sitting on the chair. I tried to sit up, yelped in pain and rolled myself off the bed instead... only to be pushed back on by Steph, who wanted to change my dressings. I remember telling her to stuff it, and that I would change them myself after I'd had a nice soothing shower. And by that time, it would be time for hand over and morning shift would start. Steph grumbled until Mitch said that he was sure I was perfectly capable of changing the dressings, or of buzzing for help if I really needed it, and he needed her help with a different patient.

I admit that I felt more human after that shower, and far more ready to face the world. I was going to figure out something to do with the dressings, but when the dumb things wouldn't stay on, I swallowed my pride and rang the buzzer. Von came, checked the wound sites, and then told me she'd talk to the doctors, but didn't think I needed the dressings any more. Mitch said to use gauze padding and tape. Just to keep the wounds protected. Von applied it with ease, before saying that she was sure I didn't need any more help, and that she was going to go track down Jared, because otherwise he'd be late for handover. AGAIN.

"Thanks, Von. I guess the old saying about nurses making the worst patients is true, I'm quite sure I wasn't a very good patient." I mumbled. "No, you weren't. But Peter and Sophie were worse," Von grumbled. "I'm still having trouble coming to terms with what happened between Soph and Harry's father. I'm just glad the boys are safe with their grandmother." I nodded, blankly. "So, what was the damage?" "Two lacerations in the knee hollows required five stitches each, Two of the four in the join between buttocks and thighs required ten each, the other two required five each. The two on your thighs only needed three stitches each. Finally, the two on the cheeks. Fortunately, they and the two on the thighs were in fleshier areas than the other six, and therefore weren't as bad. The four of them needed ten in total, giving you a grand total of fifty stitches."

I laughed weakly. "And the oddly embarrassing realisation that I don't know exactly what to call the locations of most of them!" Von looked at me strangely, before paging Mitch. "I think we may have discharged this one too early, the hysteria's back." "How can you tell?" "Well, either that, or she's making dumb jokes for the sake of it, and she doesn't do that." I broke in at that moment. "We're idiots, you know that? Two shallow lacerations in the upper gluteus maxima, two deeper ones in the lower, with a further two deep ones in the crease between glutei and thigh. Two shallow lacerations in the thighs, and finally, two deeper ones in the knee hollows."

"Nope, no hysteria. And I can't think of anything else to justify keeping the patient in bed, or anywhere else for that matter. If I didn't know the patient's view on un-necessary fussing, I would suggest she take the day off work to recover." Mitch responded. "Yeah, that's REALLY going to happen," I rather crossly replied. "I leave this place alone, and heaven alone knows what Steph and Bron and Jared will get up to."

Von's reply was something about letting the other sisters fuss over me for a bit. I shot that idea down fast and hard. Bernard needed them more, and I was, for the thousandth time, FINE. Now, could we PLEASE go to handover, before my shift started with me having not a clue what I was meant to be doing, or who I was meant to be doing it to or with?

* * *

><p>AN: Hell, that was a LONG chapter. Don't expect an effort that long ever again. And, once more, if this gives you nightmares, remember the fic's rating is M for a reason, and it gave me nightmares too. Still, this is the last of the extreme chapters, the next few deal with how everyone deals with the events in this one, and then we'll see what happens. It should be interesting.

Oh, and I'm quite aware that it's disjointed, and the thought threads jump all over the place. That's what happens in bad situations like this, and this was, first and foremost, a diary entry, so perfect coherence isn't always possible anyway. Flames shall be cheefully ignored


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